


Destinations

by eLJay



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4649853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eLJay/pseuds/eLJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unrelated oneshots.  Gaby and Illya slowly make their way together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vienna

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of these people, and am certainly not making any money from this or any other fanfiction.
> 
> These first appeared on Tumblr and are also on FF.net. I remember back in the day when I had to scour the Internet for fanfiction and there weren't all of these new-fangled sites to publish it... *rattles cane*

“So you _can_ dance.”

His gaze dropped to her and one eyebrow arched. Then he looked down further still, to where their feet moved smoothly across the parquet floor. When he’d first led her to the floor with one hand light on her back she’d feared for her feet; it was a relief and a bit of a surprise to find him more than competent at the waltz. “Yes. This is dancing,” he said, as if to a child. “What you were doing before…” One shoulder hitched higher in a shrug. “Not so much.”

Anyone who didn’t know him better would think him apathetic, if not annoyed. She saw the crinkling around his eyes and the minute upturn of his lips, felt his muscles relaxed under her hands, and knew that he was teasing. The realization that she noticed—and not just noticed, but looked for—those signs nettled her. At the same time, she reasoned, it was necessary to know one’s teammates. If she couldn’t tell by the flare of his nostrils when Kuryakin lost control of his temper, or when Solo’s confident smirk no longer hid the desperation in his eyes, she couldn’t help them. She did not linger on why such a small smile as the one currently on her dance partner’s face could cause such a fluttering in her belly.

Instead she gave a gentle squeeze to his bicep. He guided her deftly into a turn and Solo spun into view. In his tuxedo he looked as suave as ever, but the expression on his face was deceivingly earnest as he listened to a businessman boast about their newest acquisition. Frau Bauer, the man’s wife and the more knowledgeable about their art collection, had been Solo’s intended target for the evening, and he had been quite prepared to, as he put it, milk her for information; upon hearing that the good lady had been feeling too unwell to attend the reception he was more dismayed than panicked, and had easily adjusted his plan of attack. Gaby and Illya—Kuryakin—were there to reconnoiter, and to provide backup if the need arose. Based on the way Herr Bauer was laughing and pressing another glass of champagne into Solo’s hand, his own lingering over the American’s, it didn’t look as if that would be necessary.

When she returned her attention to Kuryakin his amusement had faded, though his expression was as open as before. To reassure him that they hadn’t anything to worry about she smiled up at him, hoping to appear to any observers like an ordinary woman, a harmless ornament, a doting fiancée. In response he blinked several times, like he’d stepped from darkness into a bright light. Then, slowly, he returned her smile and it was genuine and pleased and wider than she’d yet seen from him, his eyes so warm she felt her breath catch.

“Steady,” he said quietly, the hand holding hers aloft tightening, the fingers splayed against her waist curling in slightly. She looked down, feeling abashed and shy. A foolish heat filled her, spreading from the place where his big hand rested; the heat would not betray her as a flush across her cheeks, but there were other signs that someone with training could read and exploit. If he shifted his hand he could wrap his fingers around her wrist and feel the pulse speeding there; if he caught her chin, raised it and forced her to look at him, he would see her pupils wide and dark.

She was not sure what she would see in his face if she looked.

Well, there was only one way to find out. Gaby sighed and stepped closer, sliding her hand further up Illya’s arm, toward his shoulder. As she drew nearer his hand slipped from her waist around to the small of her back, though he did not stop their steps, not until she set her chin against his chest and tilted her head to gaze up at him.

Then he stilled midstep, a frown creasing his brow. “Is anything wrong?” Even before she responded he brought their joined hands to her face, brushing his fingers against her cheek, her forehead, feeling for fever, his eyes roaming restlessly over her face. She shook her head, eyes dropping closed at the contact, relishing his touch.

“I’m fine. Don’t stop dancing now.”

His frown slackened, though the narrowing of his eyes meant that he was not dropping the subject. All the same he began swaying gently. “This is not how the waltz is done,” he murmured, less scolding than fond, and she smiled.

“I like to make up my own moves.” She could reach the back of his neck, now, and did, scratching her nails through the short hair there, feeling him shiver, watching in satisfaction as his eyes darkened. “Do you mind if I lead?”

He shook his head but by then she was already on her toes, pulling him down to meet her lips.


	2. Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote this I couldn't remember if the dossier in the credits listed French among Illya's languages. If it does not, please forgive me, and be willing to believe that he can manage at least conversational French.

What does one do with a rare free afternoon in Paris? 

Why, one shops, of course. 

(Though if one were a cowboy, one might forego shopping in favor of a ride.  Illya does not care to know the particulars of Solo’s duets, as it were.)

He and Gaby stroll down a street outside of the city’s center, an arm’s length between them.  He has pointed out several boutiques he thinks she would like, but she has shaken her head at every window full of dresses or shoes; every refusal hammers home the realization that he knows less about her than he should, and he wonders if she is waiting for something, if she is growing impatient and angry.  For all he can tell she seems content with walking, though the autumn sky is a threatening grey.

At the corner sits a café, and he is about to suggest they stop there when he notices the bookshop.  Illya pauses, gazing at the shelves beyond the gilt lettering on the window; the interior looks inviting, the neatly-arrayed volumes tempting him to linger, and he shuffles closer.  A little behind him, Gaby snorts.  He glances over his shoulder to see her wearing a smirk. 

“If you looked a woman that way…”  She trails off, regarding him with fathomless eyes.

“What?”  He glances into the glass; he finds nothing out of the ordinary in his reflection, and wishes he knew what she sees on his face. 

Her dark ponytail swings as she shakes her head, that infuriating smirk still on her lips.  In lieu of answering she says, “I’ll be across the way,” jerking her thumb toward the _parfumerie_ opposite.  He nods and turns back toward the shop, watching her reflection as she goes, her coat bobbing brightly against the dim interior.  Only when she is safely inside does he push open the door and duck into the bookstore.

To the left is a long counter, handsomely carved; at the moment the cash register is unattended, which is no surprise, as the sing-song “ _Bonjour_ ” had come from the right.  At the back of the shop a velvet curtain conceals the entrance to a back room.  He suspects that somewhere behind that curtain a door leads to a cellar, but cannot rely on an exit he is not certain exists.  That leaves the front, door and windows alike.  Apart from him there is only one other customer, a middle-aged man who soon mutters goodbye and departs, leaving only Illya and the still-unseen shop assistant. 

The shop smells of leather, paper, and dust.  He wanders past the recent fiction, past the classics of French literature— _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_ , _Candide_ , _Les Liaisons Dangereuses_ , short stories by de Maupassant, some of them lavishly bound; out of curiosity he takes down one of the more ornate editions and glances at the price penciled inside the cover.  It is high, many more francs than he has on hand, but not exorbitant, and he replaces the book with care.  Nonfiction is of more interest to him anyway, and he studies the titles of works on philosophy, biography, and history.  Surely a place so well-stocked must have some books on chess, he thinks, swinging his head to survey the shelves. 

“Can I help you find anything?”

The shop assistant is pretty enough, her hair dyed a striking auburn and the lenses in her glasses merely for show.  She is tall—not as tall as he is, but certainly taller than Gaby—with long legs showcased by tight trousers.  Though her smile is carefully calculated to appeal, it has the simplest motives behind it.  Amused by her transparency, Illya allows himself to smile in response.

“Do you have anything on chess?”

“Of course.”  With hips swaying she leads the way to a section full of books on games and sports.  “Do you play?”

He nods.  “When I have time.”

“One should always make time for pleasurable activities,” she advises.  “ _Voilà_.”  A manicured hand sweeps along the shelf, presenting it for his perusal, before she struts back to perch on a stool behind the counter. 

The girl watches him as he browses.  It’s only a bit annoying; he’s had years of being noticed, of standing out, and by now he can tell the difference between curiosity and surveillance.  Being watched by a bored and not unattractive young lady is not the worst thing that could happen to him.  He is able to ignore her long enough to puzzle through the conundrums in one of the volumes.

“Excuse me, sir, could you help me for a moment?”  She stands with hands clasped in front of her, smiles with too much delight when he nods and crosses the room.  Her arm raises in a graceful line to indicate a thick book on a shelf above her head, just out of reach, as she tosses out some casual fiction about the stepstool having been mislaid.  When he gives her the volume, a dictionary, her hands brush his before she tucks the book below her breasts, nudging them higher.  “Thank you.  It would have been a shame to have such a lovely big man in here and not make use of him.”  Her eyes rake over him, her meaning obvious. 

Illya is accustomed to being useful.

The girl steps closer, freeing one hand to caress his sleeved arm.  If she is not careful, he notes, she will drop the dictionary, likely causing irreparable damage; he reaches for it and she takes it as encouragement, her smile brilliant and predatory as the book begins a slow slide toward the floor.  He bends a little to catch it. 

All of a sudden he is being kissed. 

The scent of her is clean and subtly rosy.  A small hand is at the nape of his neck, tilting his head down awkwardly to meet her.  The kiss is as rough as he has expected it to be, as demanding, as possessive.  In truth he does not mind being kissed this way; it reveals more about her motives than a soft embrace would.  Hers is not the only revelation, though, and he turns toward her, stoops a little, and sweetens the kiss, slows her onslaught.  The hand not holding the book goes to her waist; she is trembling, and he does not attribute it to anger alone.

When she pulls away, Gaby’s smile is tight and sharp.  “Darling.  There you are.”  She snuggles close to his side; the hand she slides up his chest bears a dark-pearled ring, to which the shopgirl’s eyes flick with the mildest of interest.  “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.  Are you done here?”

He nods and with deliberate care hands the dictionary over.  Though she surely knows the answer, the girl asks, “We had nothing you wanted?”

As he answers Gaby threads her arm around his: _mine_ say the kiss, the ring, the embrace.  She has lost too much for mere words to suffice; it is better to prove one’s intentions through action.  Still, he can imagine her growling the word in his ear, and it is enough to make him firmly turn his thoughts to bracing dips in icy water, to spaces on the chessboard.  He manages to steady his voice enough that when he answers, “Not today, thank you,” it sounds neutral and calm.

She is unperturbed.  “Ah, well.  Maybe next time.”  There will be no next time for the two of them, but surely there will be another handsome customer with whom she can flirt.  The next time will doubtless be more successful for her.  The bell tinkles over the door as he holds it open for Gaby.

Once they are a few doors down and well out of view of the bookshop she drops his arm and stalks forward.  It takes only a few strides to catch up with her. 

“I suppose you enjoyed that,” she snarls. 

“It was a very nice bookstore.”

“With a _very_ helpful salesgirl.”

“She was indeed eager to please,” he agrees placidly.  She mutters something under her breath that, though he doesn’t quite catch it, sounds most rude. 

Illya stops to study her.  One hand clutches tightly at the strap of her handbag; the other holds just as fiercely to the handles of a small shopping bag.  If her hands were free they’d be clenched in fists.  Her nostrils are flared, her jaw set.  There is more than anger in her eyes when they meet his; there is fear and something else, something that he hadn’t seen in the shop assistant’s eyes.  She raises her chin defiantly.  Were they in private, he suspects he would have been tackled by now. 

And yet he cannot help but smirk.  “There is no need to be jealous,” he chides. 

“Jealous?  Of her?”  She is outraged, incredulous.

He reaches down to take her hand.  She stiffens, fingers clenched; rather than try to break her grip he holds her fist lightly and strokes his thumb just below the ring she’d put on before entering the shop.  Bit by bit she relaxes until he’s able to slot his fingers between hers.

They stand there together, on the sidewalk of an unremarkable street in Paris, their hands joined.  All of Illya’s attention is on the woman before him, whose glare has faded to a frown, and whose frown now falters.  He looks at her as if she is endlessly fascinating, distractingly beautiful, the only woman in the entire city he cares to notice.

There are few enough times when they can speak the truth, rare moments when they can be themselves rather than some cover or another.  This is Illya looking at Gaby, watching her lower her guard for him, feeling her hand settle into his, her palm press against his and her fingertips cool on the back of his hand.

Finally she steps closer.  In a low voice she says, “When we get back to the hotel I will show you what happens when you look at a woman that way.”

“I look forward to it,” he says, smiling, and they set off for their destination just a little quicker than they’d come.


	3. Marseilles

“Gaby,” he gasped, and though the Russian’s eyes were closed Napoleon smiled down at him. 

“She’s fine,” he said glibly, the wave of his hand going unseen. It may have been a tad optimistic of him, but she had been perfectly safe the last he’d seen her. Now Peril, on the other hand, was not looking his best; an unhealthy flush stained his features and his skin was slick with sweat, plastering his hair to his forehead. He shifted lethargically in the backseat, the grimace on his face falling far short of his usual disapproving glare.

Kuryakin had worn that glare as he’d insisted that he was fine and that the mission could continue as planned. It may have fooled anyone else, but being able to read people who were dissembling was Napoleon’s stock in trade. He’d decided to take Kuryakin at his word, and Peril had indeed held himself together until they’d completed their assignment; then he’d collapsed, the fever that had been simmering for who knows how long getting the better of him. Hadn’t even had the decency to pass out in their getaway car, though, the cad, and Napoleon had had to manhandle him into the vehicle. “Next time, remind me to request a bigger car,” he’d huffed, folding Kuryakin’s long legs so as not to close the door on his feet, “or a smaller partner.” 

The multilingual muttering from the backseat was more concerning than even the fainting had been. The KGB would have trained (to employ what surely rated as a euphemism) Kuryakin to keep silent: under torture, even in sleep. That he couldn’t keep quiet now meant that he was in worse shape than Napoleon had believed. He drove a little faster toward the rendezvous point.

He could make out the occasional English phrase among the German and Russian and was not above listening for any useful information spilled in the big man’s delirium. What he could understand was all dreadfully mundane, though; the only thing of any interest was the frequency with which their third colleague’s name passed his lips. 

Of course, Napoleon was not at all surprised. The pair of them had been dancing around each other since their first meeting; it would have been infuriating to watch if it weren’t also so entertaining. Gaby thought her sunglasses hid the sidelong slide of her eyes to him whenever he was around, but the glasses didn’t mask the tongue that darted out to wet her lips or the softening of the smiles she directed his way. And Kuryakin, well, he was too far gone to realize just how transparent he was. His concern for Fräulein Teller far surpassed mere collegiality; he gravitated toward her as if magnetized, apparently loath to leave her unattended when they were on an op. He seemed to have forgotten that their engagement had been a sham one.

The man was smitten in the worst way, and Napoleon couldn’t fault him for it. Gaby was a game girl, quick and handy in a tight spot, and a looker to boot. He particularly admired her pugnacity–she proved the adage about the size of the fight in the dog being more important than the size of the dog in the fight. They were well-matched, made an attractive couple; they could have had fun together, he thought with only a twinge of regret, if it weren’t for Peril. What she saw in him was a mystery. Apparently she went for the blond brick-wall type. There was no accounting for taste sometimes.  Their feelings were a liability, and a legitimate reason for Waverly to split up the team. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that–not only for his own sake, but for theirs, as well.

She was waiting right where she was supposed to be, just out of sight, and he slowed the car long enough for her to get in. Expecting Kuryakin to be in the passenger seat she’d opened the rear door; after a moment’s hesitation she slipped into the back, and though she was petite there couldn’t have been much room back there. “What’s this?” she asked, just audible over the squeaks and rustles that must have been her rearranging the Russian. Napoleon heard the worry just at the edge of her words.

“Illya has assured me several times that he’s fine. Isn’t that right, Peril?” he asked jovially. In the mirror he could see a slice of Gaby’s face, pale in the darkness; her attention was on Kuryakin, who groaned something that may or may not have been a response.

“He’s burning up.” He supposed that to check his temperature she’d laid her cool little hands on his cheeks and neck and forehead, pushing aside the sodden hair.  There was no accusation when she said, “He shouldn’t have come tonight,” only guilt. It wasn’t a sensation he often entertained, nor was it one she should be dealing with now.

“You were there; he insisted. How do you think we could have stopped him from coming along? Should we have knocked him out and tied him to a chair?” He raised his eyes to glance into the mirror; hers flicked up, a flash of pain in them, and she shook her head. Tying him up wouldn’t have done any good anyway: they both knew that even sick he could have freed himself from nearly any restraint they might have devised. But they needed to be able to trust each other, and that included trusting that they’d make the right decisions, know when to put their pride aside and sit out. That was a conversation they’d have to have–but later, when Kuryakin wasn’t hallucinating about being ministered to by a German angel. It would have seemed like quite the hallucination indeed, if Napoleon hadn’t observed Gaby’s tenderness when it came to Peril.

Between them they managed to haul Kuryakin from the backseat and into his bed. Napoleon untied his shoes, though his remark about the size of the other man’s feet remained unappreciated, as its subject was barely conscious and Gaby was busy in the bathroom, running cool water over a washcloth. She returned with the cloth dripping in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Napoleon finished emptying Kuryakin’s pockets of things that might go bang in the night, setting assorted espionage-related accoutrements on the bedside table as Gaby placed the cool cloth on his head.

Fevered blue eyes turned toward her. “Gaby, _bist du da_?” he rasped. It was a truly pitiful sound, full of a vulnerability Napoleon knew he was not meant to hear.

“ _Ja, Bärchen, ich bin hier_.” She toed off her heels and slid onto the bed, sitting against the headboard and extending her legs. She lifted his head into her lap, popped two pills–aspirin, he assumed, to bring the fever down–into his mouth, and held the glass to his lips; he swallowed with a moan as Gaby encouraged and praised him. Without looking at Napoleon she handed him the glass and began threading her fingers through damp blond hair.

It was well past time for him to leave; his work was done and now Napoleon was distinctly the odd man out. Still, that didn’t mean he had to go quietly. Nodding to the recumbent figure sprawled before him he asked, “Aren’t you afraid of catching the Red fever?”

Her fingers didn’t still as she raised her eyes to bestow upon him a truly unimpressed glare. Though that response was sufficient, he went ahead and answered his own question: “Then again, I suppose you can’t catch something you already have.”

Knowing full well that retaliation would follow when she was not more pleasantly engaged, Napoleon smirked and swaggered from the room to call Waverly and possibly a large-animal vet to attend to Gaby’s “little bear.” Half turning at the doorway he caught sight of them; Gaby had not ceased petting him but had placed her free hand over Illya’s heart, and he had reached up to envelop her hand with his own, his breathing even and his expression now serene. Napoleon smiled and pulled the door shut with a quiet click.


	4. Rio de Janeiro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For visual reference, please see a photo of Alicia Vikander in "Anna Karenina."

Gaby wandered from the briefing in a daze. What Waverly had suggested was nothing she had been prepared to hear. The idea had never so much as crossed her mind; now, though their handler’s tone had been mild and offhand as he mentioned it, she would have to do it, like it or not. A mirror hung between the two lifts in the hallway, and she could not avoid looking in it as they waited.

It was a decent enough reflection, she thought. It had high cheekbones—nothing like Victoria Vinciguerra’s, but they cut the babyish look of the face—and thick eyelashes framing coffee-colored eyes. Some men thought it pretty, even when it’d been covered with axle grease instead of makeup; in fact, one young man had been so taken with her that his car had broken down in a series of mysterious yet regularly-occurring circumstances.

But while men had always been eager to remark on her mechanical prowess or her figure, women had always complimented her on her hair. She bit her lip now as she studied it in the mirror. Though she did not lavish it with any special care it was thick and long, and healthy in spite of the time she spent under cars. She’d had no reason to be dissatisfied with it before now, nor any desire to alter it. Even now it was not her own choice, but rather the preference of some man. It seemed there were those who thought so highly of their own opinions that others were expected to change to suit them. More surprising was the realization that the burden of embodying that preference now rested on her.

“He likes his women blonde,” Waverly had remarked, and unbidden she had remembered a deeper voice expressing a preference for something she had already proven to be.

_Strong_ was not a hair color, to be chosen and changed on a whim.

The smile that had crept onto her face with the thought was dashed away by Solo’s face appearing in the mirror behind her. “Worried about the change?” he divined, tone as light and crisp as always. Surely it was his career that allowed him to so easily read people; she hated to think that she was the only one who was so transparent. “Don’t be. Remember, they do say that gentlemen prefer blondes.”

“How would you know?” she snapped in reply. Heedless of the slight, Solo’s smile remained roguish, and if anything took on an even more knowing slant. She was aware of his eyes on her reflection, as if reading her thoughts through the glass; the idea of him in her head made her feel even pricklier.

A wig wouldn’t do, he’d already explained. A wig would be too easy to dislodge, particularly in a moment of passion—like a scuffle, the kind she’d been in plenty of times before, he clarified innocently, eyes twinkling damnably. In order to sell the image she’d have to go the whole nine yards and submit to having it dyed. She very much hoped that this little operation was as important as Waverly and the rest of the unseen U.N.C.L.E. brass thought.

Now, somewhat more gently, Solo said, “It won’t change who you are, you know.”

“Of course it won’t.”

He went on, ignoring the acidity of her tone. “We all do what we have to for the mission. No one will think any different of you for it—well, none of us will. After all, it’s not as if you’re doing this out of vanity.”

“You know all about vanity.”

Rather than attempt to deny it he preened in the mirror, and not for the first time Gaby thought about how handsome Solo was. With that cleft in his chin and that strong profile he could be a film star. It was a testament to his skill as a spy: surely someone less attractive would have found it easier to work undetected. The same was true of Illya, though his height was the greater handicap—not that he wasn’t handsome; it just wasn’t the first thing anyone noticed about him, nor his most memorable trait.

Illya. She suppressed a sigh. He’d been briefed earlier and was now out fetching a part needed to repair one of his gadgets; she had no idea whether or not he’d been apprised of the change to come. What would he think? Would he like it? She cursed herself for caring, hoping that Solo wasn’t truly able to read her mind. Then, in defiance of all men and their opinions, she raised her chin. It didn’t matter what Illya thought, anyway; it was for the mission, and it was her hair, and it was none of his business.

“I know a little salon that’s chic and, more importantly, discreet,” Solo said, and she rolled her eyes. Of course he did. “I’ll book you an appointment for first thing tomorrow.”

* * *

If the truth were told she was glad to have left the arrangements in Solo’s ever capable hands, glad her only duty was to slide into a taxi in the morning after a night of restless sleep and arrive at a salon whose name flowed across the front window in an elegant script. It hadn’t been necessary for him to make the appointment on her behalf, not from a mission standpoint at least, and she really ought to thank him for it—or not; it all depended on the results.

In spite of the pastel color scheme and the presence of fluffy towels the place seemed almost like a kind of torture chamber, where one was supposed to pay for the privilege of sitting in a chair for hours on end, surrounded by ceaseless chattering, having noxious chemicals applied to one’s head. She would have fallen asleep if possible, but being herded from one station to the next, culminating in being deposited under a dryer that whirred noisily overhead, precluded sleep. And yet it wasn’t all bad; the women in the salon, stylists and clients alike, were gentle and soft and harmless, in the best sense of the word. Against her will, Gaby found herself relaxing.

Relaxed though she had been, when it finally came time for the results to be revealed her nerves returned in full force. Belatedly she remembered classmates bemoaning the effects of chemicals on their hair, the horror stories of how it turned dry and brittle, or how a hoped-for golden color instead turned out as something more carroty. But these were professionals, she reminded herself, being paid what was likely an exorbitant sum for their works; and she steeled herself and raised her eyes to the mirror.

No matter what, professional opinion was overwhelmingly positive. “You look superb!” cooed the stylist behind her, her hands clasped beneath her chin. Gaby managed a smile that she hoped came across as self-effacing rather than shocked and thanked the woman.

Whether or not the color suited her she could hardly tell when different was the only thing she saw. All her life she’d been little brown-haired Gaby but now someone else had appeared in the mirror, someone just barely recognizable. After a moment she realized that beneath the surprise and disorientation there was a ripple of relief at the fact that her hair was in fact blonde, not orange, and as thick and soft as ever. That relief allowed her to study the woman in the mirror with some detachment. The color was not the cool Dietrich blonde she’d apparently been expecting; it was warmer, richer, deep and glowing. She looked…younger, Gaby decided, and somehow more innocent. Except for her eyes. They were still old. There was a wall in them, in her, as solid as the one she’d escaped over.

That it remained when all else had changed was cold comfort.

* * *

 As she was stepping out of the taxi outside the hotel Solo was just leaving the building. The timing couldn’t have been better if they’d worked it out beforehand and done a dry run in preparation; she narrowed her eyes, wondering which of the women at the salon had called to let him know when she left. Ever the gallant, Solo held the door open for her, murmuring a “Good afternoon, miss.” The gallantry was seriously undermined when he tipped his sunglasses down and regarded her over of the top of the frames—the better to see the dye job, she assumed. His only response was to grace her with a wink before returning the glasses to their proper position; when she had entered he let the door go and continued on his way. It seemed her hair met with Solo’s approval, at least.

That was all well and good, she reminded herself, but it was not Solo whose approval mattered. All that mattered was whether or not their self-important mark fancied it. The reassurance did little to calm her nerves.

In her room, not far from the one Illya and Solo were sharing, she’d just had time to slip her shoes off when a businesslike knock sounded on the door. When she opened it Illya glanced down at her, mouth open as if to speak, and then frowned.

After a moment’s pause he said, politely, “Excuse me, miss. I must have the wrong room.” Then he turned to go.

Before he took more than a step she reached out and seized his arm to haul him into the room. “Illya!” she hissed, in exasperation and trepidation and something too much like affection, as he stumbled after her. She shut the door behind them and turned to see his brow knit in confusion.

So he hadn’t known. How much would Solo have given to see this reaction? she wondered. And more importantly, where had he hidden recording devices in her room?

“Gaby?” At any other time she would have laughed at the perfect double-take Illya executed; right at the moment, though, she was more concerned with his reaction. With a critical expression he assessed her: right size, right voice, just wrong hair. Her stomach was in a roil at the inspection, one that failed to decrease when comprehension dawned on his face. “So this is the surprise Cowboy said you had for me.”

Wherever he was right now, the jackass was laughing. “I didn’t do it for you,” she said, too quickly, “I did it for the job.”

He inclined his head. “Of course. I did not mean…” He trailed off and an ungainly silence loomed between them.

This was not going as she’d hoped. “So…what do you think? Do you like it?” She cocked her head, coquettishly.

“It…is different,” he said carefully. “I am glad you showed me now, rather than during mission. I would have been distracted by it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

His eyes stopped studying her hair and dropped to her face; she was satisfied to see his gaze bore into her with the same intensity he employed while at work. “You are very beautiful always.” He did not embellish or elaborate the way some men would have, listing her various graces, but she heard his sincerity in the way his voice had lowered, as if the compliment were a secret between them, intimate and dear. “Always,” he repeated, even more quietly, and she wondered if he knew he’d spoken aloud.

The faint flush in his cheeks said that he did. He swallowed, though he did not retreat. More loudly he began, “This…” and gestured to her hair.

The niggling in her stomach returned. “Yes?”

His frown returned as his attention went to it again, and she resisted the urged to smooth her hair, though it was still perfectly set. Then he shook his head in an economical movement and declared, “This is not practical.”

Wasn’t that just the Soviet way, to privilege practicality over beauty. She cocked her hip, shifting her weight in a smooth slide that she noticed his eyes follow. “Oh, really? How’s that?”

“Brown hides engine grease better, yes?” His grin, sudden and sunny, made her feel lightheaded, but didn’t hinder the swat to his arm.

“This woman is beautiful,” he said, “but when we are done, I will be glad to see the chop shop girl again.”

* * *

 As luck would have it, Solo knew a chic, discreet little salon in Johannesburg, too.


End file.
